


A family affair

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Oh my god I'm sorry I write about booze all the time it's a problem), Gen, Hangover, Nolofinwian hijinks, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nolofinwions get together for a long weekend. The problem is that the kids arrive a night before their parents...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A family affair

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Request to finally meet Argon: granted.  
> 1\. Takes place sometime in the first summer of DWMP.

Aredhel closed the bedroom door very softly behind her and slipped down the stairs. Her brothers were sitting at the table, both clutching large cups of coffee and looking rather the worse for wear. Fingon was pressing a glass of ice water to his temple, and Turgon had dark circles under his eyes. 

“Well?” Turgon asked, looking up as she came in.

Aredhel sighed and sat down across from him. “He’s still asleep.” 

“Did you get a look at – ” 

Aredhel shook her head. “It’s still swollen up pretty badly.” 

Fingon put the glass of water down. “I told you we should have wrapped it last night. Why am I never listened to on these things? I was an EMT for two semesters in college.” 

“One semester. And you didn’t tell us to  _wrap_  it,” said Turgon, through gritted teeth. “You were drunk off your head and proposed doing a  _field amputation._ ” 

Fingon looked mildly surprised. “Did I? I could’ve sworn I said we should find an ace bandage.” 

“Yeah, I’m going to listen to the brother who’s actually in med school and who was – well, ‘sober’ is an exaggeration. Let’s call it ‘less drunk’ – last night,” said Aredhel. “What should we do, Turno?” 

Turgon took a breath, looking anxious. “…there’s nothing we can really do. I made him take some ibuprofen before bed, and I tried to make sure he passed out with his foot elevated. Now all we have to do is…” 

“Wake up our baby brother in time for breakfast with the parents and hope he’s not still drunk,” said Fingon succinctly. “Like I might be. Whoops.”

 

-

 

As Anairë turned the car down the long dirt drive that led to their lake house, she glanced at her husband. 

“So, what do you suspect the damage will be?” 

Fingolfin looked pensive. “Well, they’ve only had 24 hours here before we arrived. So there’s a limited amount of trouble they could have gotten into.” 

Anairë shook her head pityingly. “How you underestimate our children, dearest.” 

Fingolfin sighed. “Fine. I will put good money on calling that our youngest had his first experience with alcohol last night.” 

“ _Sweetheart_. Arko just got back from a gap year in New Zealand. Where, I will remind you, the drinking age is 18. There is  _no way_  his first time drinking was last night.”

Fingolfin looked mournfully out the window. “…I’d forgotten about that.” 

Anairë patted his leg. “So. At least a couple hangovers. Now, anything worse than that?”

“At least one minor object broken,” said Fingolfin. “If I’m being realistic, one larger object too.”

“Injuries?”

“$20 says it’s one of the boys.” 

They both thought for a minute. 

“Findekáno,” they said together.

 

-

 

The sun was too bright, beating against Argon’s closed eyelids. He dragged an arm over his eyes and groaned. “Nnnh.” 

“Well, he’s alive at least. That’s something.”

“I dunno if ‘alive’ is the right word for it. Walking dead, maybe. But oh, right, we don’t think he can walk.” 

“Shut  _up_ , Finno.” 

“NNNH,” said Argon again, loudly, and peeked out from under his arm. Three pairs of almost identical blue eyes were staring at him. He hid under his arm again. 

Someone tugged it back down. 

“C’mon, Arko,” said Aredhel. “Time to get up. Mom and dad are going to be here soon.” 

“Argh.” 

“I know,” said Aredhel soothingly. “If it makes you feel any better, Findekáno’s already thrown up once this morning, so you’re not alone.” 

Fingon gave him a thumbs up and a big fake smile. “You’re in good company, little brother. Can you make it upright?” 

Argon pushed himself up and winced. “Why,” he said, slowly, “is there a sweater wrapped around my foot?” 

His three older siblings looked guilty. 

“I told Turno an ace bandage would have been better,” said Fingon at last.

“You were looking for a  _penknife_ ,” hissed Turgon. “I did the best I could with the materials at hand.” 

“Right,” said Aredhel. “Because there might be some gaps in your memory, Arko, I’ll fill you in while our brothers argue about emergency medicine.”

 

-

 

As Argon limped down the hallway, clutching Aredhel’s shoulder, bits of the night came back to him.

 

_“Stick with beer, Arko, or you’ll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”_

_“Nono, there’s this great drink we used to make in New Zealand, I gotta show you guys. Got any cheap scotch?”_

 

“Here,” said Aredhel. “A shower might be too much to expect of you, but brushing your teeth is a necessity.” She propped him up and handed him the toothpaste.

 

_“You know what would be awesome? Since we’re at the lake house? If we went – ”_

_“SWIMMING. Brilliant.”_

_“Are you nuts, you two? The water’s freezing.”_

_“Scared, Turno?”_

 

“Okay, so the trick is to have him already sitting at the table when mom and dad come in, so they don’t notice he isn’t able to stand up.” 

Fingon cursed and rummaged in the cupboard as Aredhel and Turgon arranged Argon at the table. “No pancake mix? What  _is_  this hellhole?” 

“He also looks really green,” said Turgon, stepping back and examining Argon critically. “Do you have any make-up, Irissë?” 

“Everyone’s just going to have to be okay with  _improvised_  pancakes,” said Fingon, slamming the cupboard and making everyone wince at the noise. “We have no ingredients. What’s a good substitute for milk?”

 

_“Bet you can’t jump from the dock to the canoe.”_

_“Pssh, ‘course I could!”_

_“I dunno. Looks pretty far…”_

_“Well, of course you’d think so, Finno. With your short little legs. But for us_ normal-sized  _men…”_

_“Ooh, that’s it. Put your money where your mouth is, you little shit.”_

_Argon took a swig from the bottle he and Fingon were passing back and forth. “You’re_ on _. Where’s the canoe?” He set off unsteadily, and Aredhel shook her head._

 _“Let’s hope he never rushes a fraternity. The child is_ far _too easy to haze.”_

 

Argon sank his head into his hands as Aredhel ruffled up his hair. “You’ll feel better once you have some food in you.” 

“Not if Findekáno’s cooking,” said Argon into his hands.

 

-

 

Anairë parked and got out of the car, pulling a heavy grocery bag out of the back seat. “Well, no windows broken, at least.” 

“That’s a good sign,” said Fingolfin, hopefully. “And look, there’s movement in the kitchen, so they’re up at least.” 

They made their way to the front door and exchanged looks. “We should knock,” said Anairë, shifting the grocery bag to her hip. “Give them a little warning, at least.” 

Fingolfin knocked.

 

-

 

“They’re here.” Turgon looked up anxiously. “Think they’ll notice anything?” 

“Only one way to see.” Aredhel made her way to the front door and pulled it open. 

“Irissë!” 

Aredhel let her father pull her into a hug while Anairë made her way into the kitchen. 

She took one look at her sons and reached into the grocery bag. “I brought Gatorade.” 

“Why is that, mother?” asked Turgon, with a valiant attempt at bafflement. “We don’t – ” 

“Thanks,” said Fingon, taking the proffered bottle from his mother and kissing her on the cheek. “Give it up, Turno.” 

“Yes, well,” mumbled Turgon, and took some Gatorade for himself. 

Fingolfin came into the kitchen, his arm around Aredhel’s shoulders, and frowned as he regarded his sons. 

“Arakáno. Why is your ankle wrapped in a sweater?” 

Turgon and Fingon exchanged exasperated glances. 

“You couldn’t have removed the most  _obvious_  thing?” 

“I was busy making sure he didn’t throw up on the floor!” 

Aredhel sighed and leaned against her father. “You know  _I_ had nothing to do with this, right, dad?” 

“I’m sure,” said Fingolfin. He looked at Anairë. “You owe me $20.” 

“No deal. It was the wrong son!” 

“I didn’t specify. The original bet was just that it was one of the boys…” 

“You bet on us?” said Fingon, indignantly. 

“We’ve bet on you since you were toddlers,” said Anairë, just as Fingolfin said, “No, of course not.” 

Turgon and Fingon both looked vaguely offended, while Anairë went over to Argon and knelt before him to examine his ankle. “Sprain?” she asked, as she ran expert hands over it and gently rotated his foot. 

“I think so,” said Turgon. “He can bear some weight and there’s not any tenderness up the shin.” 

“All right,” said Anairë, straightening up. “Here’s the plan.” She clapped her hands together. “We have a nice breakfast, as a family, and then we take a nice trip, as a family, to the clinic, and get your brother some x-rays.” She kissed Argon’s forehead as he made a face. “Findekáno, step away from the stove. I brought bagels.”


End file.
